


Tell The Illusive Man I'm Coming For His Kneecaps

by NoisyNoiverns



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoisyNoiverns/pseuds/NoisyNoiverns
Summary: Saren's brother died a tragic death, and the human responsible is going to pay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For N7 month day 4: Saren (a day late, admittedly)
> 
> Title is a reference to Battleborn: a character called ISIC will, in combat against a certain enemy type, will occasionally tell them, "Tell [your boss] I'm coming for his kneecaps!"

The news conference to announce the next councilor for any given species was always an ordeal. Camera drones buzzed all around, reporters clamored for a better view, the area positively swarmed with C-Sec and the occasional Spectre. Councilor Aepharia was an old windbag known for her insufferably long speeches, so any conference of hers was guaranteed to take an unnecessary amount of time, and this one, thanks to the importance of the subject, was even worse than usual. Behind her, her successor, Ambassador Sparatus, fidgeted and watched his feet as she droned about his qualifications and her assurance that he’d do well, neck tinted faintly blue.

Saren hung back away from the crowd, eyes on the ambassador. The councilor held no interest for him, not now that she was stepping down after the Relay 314 Incident. Going to her with his problem would only require more work later on.

Aepharia sounded like she was approaching her conclusion, so Saren took another look down at the datapad clutched in his hands, just to reassure himself it was still there. Words he’d burned into his mind’s eye taunted him- a manifesto of hate, couched in pretty words and subtlety. It had been published anonymously, but he knew the speech mannerisms, knew the tone, could practically _see_ the human he was _sure_ had to be the author speaking them.

His gizzard churned at the thought of approaching authority of his own volition. _For Desolas_ , he reminded himself. _You’re doing this for Desolas_.

Applause and a chorus of voices sounded, and he glanced up sharply. The ambassador was notoriously camera-shy, so Saren doubted he’d stick around long. He had one chance.

Predictably, as the councilor started to relax and talk more amicably to the reporters, Sparatus bowed out and hurried to get back to the tower. Saren’s plates prickled as a few C-Sec officers peeled away from Aepharia’s security detail to trail after him- _won’t be alone_ flashed through his mind, and before he was fully conscious of it, the thought spurred a spark of dark energy, a jerk of his shoulders, and the familiar feeling of being suddenly compressed and forced through a too-thin slit in the fabric of spacetime before popping out on the other side, a few steps behind Sparatus and uncomfortably close to an asari officer.

The asari and her fellows jumped and spun, and he shook his head, fluttered his mandibles, and hoped they recognized him as he put as much menace as he could into the rumble of his subvocals. The two asari couldn’t hear them, he knew, but they’d at least feel the vibrations traveling through their fragile ribs, and their turian friend would certainly translate. _go away my job i’ll do it LEAVE_ , bellowed the ultrasonic sound, and the turian officer’s neck lost some of its blue tinge. He recognized him, all right.

The officers hurried away, and the ambassador cast a slow, disinterested glance back at him. “Was that really necessary, Arterius?”

“It’s Saren,” he responded. It was automatic, not even a conscious thought. _Desolas was “Arterius.”_ “Nobody calls me Arterius.” _They know I’ll never be as good as him._

Sparatus considered this, then shrugged. “Saren, then.” A mandible flicked at him, an invitation. Saren ghosted up to walk beside him, and he continued, “So what do you want? I’m not the councilor, you don’t report to me just yet.”

 _Vengeance. Peace._ Saren hesitated. _Tie up loose ends._ Too many words bubbled up at once. _My brother back._

A wounded subvocal escaped him, and Sparatus stopped walking, now giving him a much more careful look. “Saren,” he said again, like a parent to a frightened child, “are you alright?” A thought must have struck him, because he flicked a mandible and added, “Aren’t you still on mourning leave?”

Saren snapped his mandibles to his face with an audible _click_ , trying to keep the words and emotions and raw grief that permeated every waking moment now, every single one since the rockets started raining down, from falling out of his mouth like so much lifeblood. Instead, he turned on a filter on his datapad, showing his notes and comments to himself, and handed it to the ambassador.

Sparatus eyed him for a long moment, then started to read, squinting slightly but apparently focused. Saren started to scratch at the plates on his hand, talons sliding easily into grooves he’d carved out long ago. Nihlus had told him his notes were barely comprehensible, so he’d tried to organize them more, tried to make them easier for _~~people who weren’t Desolas~~_ _people who weren’t_ _Nihlus_ people who didn’t understand him to follow.

Scratching was easy, simple. His talons dug in, ripped away tiny platelets trying to grow and repair the tears he’d already made, came back out. Over and over and over again. _Stop doing that_ , Desolas’s voice rang in his head, sharp and clear like he was standing right next to him, an echo of a day a lifetime ago. Time had yet to soften him to a comforting memory. _You need that hand, you idiot, what will you do if you get in a fight and you can’t use both hands?_

Saren’s own voice answered in his head, the memory playing out like a very badly-planned highlights reel. He’d cheekily reminded his brother he was a biotic, he’d be fine, and Desolas had responded by cuffing him around the base of his skull, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to make him cry or regret talking back. One mandible tilted up in a ghost of a smile at the faint ache at the back of his head and the image of the mirror expression Desolas had worn. He’d tried so hard not to encourage him to make a splash big enough to separate them, but it was the little things that let Saren know he was proud of who he was becoming all the same.

Sparatus’s voice cut through his reminiscence. “Alright, so you think there’s more to this… disjointed, xenophobic rambling than just some human airing their grievances,” he was saying. “What do you want _me_ to do about it?”

 _You’re not listening._ “I have reason to believe the human who wrote this is tied to the death of my brother.”

Something flashed in Sparatus’s eyes. “A heavy accusation,” he murmured, then sighed and shook his head. “I’ve read the file, I think I understand what you’re getting at. Let’s say you’re right, and that… oh, what was his name…”

“Jack Harper.” The name was harsh on Saren’s tongue, not meant for a turian mouth. “I remember.”

Sparatus bobbed his head. “Yes, thank you. Say that Harper human was behind this. What are you proposing your mission is?”

The ambassador was sharp, Saren admitted to himself. He’d do well on the Council. “I’m requesting formal permission to track down what happened to Jack Harper following the events at Temple Palaven,” he said, days of rehearsing in the mirror and under his breath paying off, “starting with this manifesto. I want to investigate Harper, find out what he’s up to and see if this publication was indeed related to what happened.”

Sparatus rolled his shoulders and raised his head, adopting a more formal stance. _A councilor’s stance_ , whispered that younger part of him that had never quite gotten over the awe of being hand-picked by the Council themselves. “And what will you do if you find him?”

His voice was solemn, subvocals grave. _This is your only chance to convince me_ , his body language read. _Choose wisely_.

Saren hesitated, then took a deep breath and mirrored his stance. His head came up, his mandibles went down, the muscles in his neck went taut, and he looked his superior in the eyes. “I’m going to drop an orbital strike on his head.”

Sparatus smiled at that, a grim, yet satisfied expression. “Very good,” he murmured, then shook his neck out and folded his arms in front of his cowl. “Legally, the Council can’t endorse vengeance quests. Special Tactics and Reconnaissance does not carry out personal missions unless the target has been proven to be a threat to galactic safety and stability. You’ll have to do all the work on your own time, and be willing to drop it and work on other missions should they arise.”

Saren’s gizzard churned, and he was drawing himself up to respond when the ambassador continued, “ _However_ , this manifesto could be dangerous if the author proved too passionate about defending their ideals. I believe we may be able to classify this as a pre-emptive strike, tracking down the author and determining the danger level so they may be dealt with accordingly. Not a proper mission, but more an assignment, to be carried out as you have time. If you’re wrong, and this is just some nobody hiding behind anonymity to feel safe in spewing bile, then no harm done. If you’re _right_ , and this is indeed Harper, I will vouch for your judgement so you may continue pursuit as you see fit.”

Saren could have kissed him. “Thank you, Ambassador,” he enthused, putting as much gratitude into his subvocals as he could. “I won’t forget this, _thank you-”_

Sparatus waved dismissively, neck turning noticeably blue. “Please, it’s nothing,” he said, ducking his head. “This is important to you, that’s obvious enough. What sort of turian would I be if I didn’t help?”

Saren nodded faintly, plans already whirring around his head. _Start at Omega. Bring Nihlus? Nihlus will come._

The ambassador’s mandibles flicked upward briefly, then he shook himself and took one of Saren’s hands in both of his, subvocals now thrumming with a secret. “I’ll send you any information I come across,” he assured him. “I have friends in the salarian embassy, I can start there. Tracing an anonymous publication is child’s play to them. I’ve watched them do it.”

Saren nodded and gripped one of Sparatus’s hands tightly. “Thank you, Ambassador. I’ll keep you updated.”

Sparatus released his hands, nodding in return. “Good luck, Saren.” For just a moment, the professional air dropped, and his mandibles went down and out. “Show that human what happens when you mess with _our_ people.”

Saren smiled grimly. “That’s my plan, Ambassador.”

He turned and paced away, practically flying with barely-contained excitement. He was already replaying the conversation in his mind. He’d rarely spoken to the ambassador before, but he’d appeared at Desolas’s funeral in the councilor’s stead, and new pictures of him with his small children cropped up almost weekly in the news. He had heart, Saren decided, and matched it with a fair amount of mind.

He’d make a valuable ally in the years to come, one Saren would do well to keep. He hadn’t been Aepharia’s biggest fan, nor she his, but Sparatus was certainly promising.

Nihlus was cleaning his armor when Saren strode into their apartment. “You seem better than the last time I saw you,” he commented, eyeing him with a mix of skepticism and relief in his subvocals. “What happened?”

Saren dragged a chair over to the closet and climbed up. “I spoke with Ambassador Sparatus. You know, Aepharia’s replacement.”

“Oh, dear. This is about that manifesto you were obsessing over, isn’t it?”

He dragged his gun case out of the storage area above the closet and tossed it to the couch, then remembered what was in it and caught it with a Lift before it could slam down. “Sparatus has agreed to let me hunt down the human responsible.” He set the case down more carefully, then looked at Nihlus with a triumphant roll to his subvocals. “Come on, Nihlus, get your gear ready.”

Nihlus’s mandibles dropped. He was one of the few Saren could manage eye contact with, and now his gaze was clouded with worry and fear. “Saren…”

Saren froze. Nihlus had already expressed he was worried for him, thought maybe he was taking his grief too far. Had he been mistaken? Would Nihlus insist he just give up, and let the human who put Desolas in the path of an orbital strike go free?

Nihlus went quiet, instead getting to his feet with a soft groan and folding his arms as he walked over. “I suppose _somebody_ has to make sure you stay grounded in reality,” he said, and Saren’s heart soared. “I’m with you all the way and back again, you know that.”

Saren grinned, a rare expression Nihlus was only one of two turians to ever see cross his face. Nihlus would be with him, Harper would die, and Desolas would rest easy. For the first time since Relay 314, things were looking up.


End file.
